The Secret Life
The beneficiary was baring his
jaws.
One small child cried to be taken away
from the teeth-gnashing barbarous episode
that was scheduled to occur.
Clouds wearing dark brimmed hats
watched the proceedings with distaste,
the yellow grass whimpered and curled, curious.
His canine teeth were long and sharp,
pointed like the prow of a ship.
With his silvered nails, hints of raw flesh
and faint memories of a row of tailors' dummies,
he might have appeared in a museum of clothes,
wore a parrot cover and a khaki leg.
His eyes reflected the onlookers'
window-pressed grimaces.
At the time of the reading, he knelt
his hand swum against the flowing tide of gold.
The beneficiary bared his jaws to speak
but the sound that issued forth
resembled curiously
the dull dry croak
of a dying frog.
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